


the tennis racquet method

by zoeyclarke



Category: Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, One Shot, also needing therapy is addressed in this fic so yay, alternate ending to 1x10, because that makeout scene was hot and i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23807785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeyclarke/pseuds/zoeyclarke
Summary: Instead of dancing out their anger, Zoey and Simon resolve it in their own way.
Relationships: Zoey Clarke/Simon Haynes
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	the tennis racquet method

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thanks goes out to montana for looking this over for me before i posted it! this was my first attempt at graphic smut so writing this was... an experience, lol. but this fandom needs zimon smut so i had to deliver somehow.
> 
> this picks up in the middle of their argument in her apartment towards the end of 1x10, so a tiny snippet of dialogue is lifted from that scene. otherwise... it's all AU from there. and yes, i agree that these two need a healthy dose of time and therapy before realistically becoming a couple, but at the same time... it would be nice if they just fucked already, right?
> 
> also: no tennis racquets were harmed in the making of this fic. they're not even involved in the actual... ahem... act. i just like the inside joke of that phrase lmao

On their way here from the front door, Zoey had thought they were getting somewhere. But maybe not so much, she thinks, as she listens to Simon’s latest rebuttal in their long-brewing argument. “You haven’t a  _ clue  _ what it means to lose someone,” he growls. “Your father is still here, he isn’t gone yet. How dare you even judge my grief?”

Zoey’s instinct is to spring up off the bed and pace, but something compels her to stay close to him. “You say my father is still here, but the last time I checked, my dad is paralyzed and trapped in a body that can no longer  _ works.  _ My dad can’t even say ‘I love you’ in his own voice anymore. He has to type it into a fucking computer.” Simon opens his mouth, but she keeps going, squeezing her hands into fists tight enough to burst blood vessels. “I have already been grieving him for  _ months,  _ Simon. The dad I knew has  _ been  _ gone, and replaced with this— this  _ shell  _ of a human. I’ve had all this time to preview my grief, like a goddamn free trial that doesn’t expire. I get to watch him wither away, trapped in his own personal hell.”

Simon just stares. It takes nearly as long for him to gather his words as it takes for her to catch her breath. Both of them are red with anger and teary-eyed.

When he finally speaks, he keeps his voice low and level. “You’re right; I’m sorry. Grief shouldn’t be compared. Listen, Zoey, I... I have a lot on my plate right now, just like you do. My relationship with Jessica  _ just _ ended. Work is stressful as hell. My mom is getting remarried to some dude I’ve never spoken to. And you’re...”

Zoey rubs her nose. Her eyes flicker down from his face to his hands, which are bunching up her comforter. “I’m what?” she mutters, almost afraid of the answer.

“It... it terrifies me how much I like you,” Simon admits. “You just popped into my life four months ago, so effortlessly charming and beautiful. I want to be around you all the time, I mean, the way you light up a room... you don’t even realize it. But  _ this  _ Zoey— this isn’t the Zoey I ran over here for. The Zoey I asked to dinner last night. The Zoey who occupies my mind all day.  _ This...  _ isn’t her.” Simon struggles to maintain his tone, like there are invisible hands gripping his throat. “And I can’t just sit here and take this. I’m done.” He rises to his feet and heads for the door.

She follows him out of her bedroom and into the foyer. “Great! Awesome. See you later,” Zoey snaps, the sarcasm so bitter on her own tongue it almost makes her choke.

“Aw, come on, Zoey,” he says. He turns around again, his brows knitted impossibly close together. “I- I think we just need some time to cool off, okay, level our heads a bit. We can talk later.”

“Really? Sure you don’t wanna, like, leave it in the past? I know brooding over the past is your favorite hobby, but maybe we should think about the future.”

A sigh grumbles deep in his chest. Despite the annoyance indenting his brow, Simon slides closer to her. She doesn’t flinch away when he sweeps some hair out of her face. “And what’s in the future, hmm? What does that even mean?” Simon asks.

Zoey blanks. Suddenly, desire flicks a switch in her brain. All Zoey knows is she needs more of him. The memory of the way he entered her apartment not even ten minutes ago prods at her mind, and she cups his face in her hands and pulls his mouth down to meet hers. He kisses her back automatically, his touch magnetic. The anger is still sizzling deep in her gut, fiery and relentless, confusing along with the hormones that are begging for them to finish what they started.

As eager to tease as she is to please, Zoey pulls back from the kiss for only a moment to mumble against his lips, “Sorry, what was it you were saying?”

“I don’t remember,” he grunts, capturing her mouth again. In the edge of her vision, she sees his hand lose its grip on the doorknob as he gives in to her advances. Then her eyes slip shut and she focuses on nothing but his hands on her hair, her hips, her ass. Not willing to relinquish control, Zoey uses all her strength to abruptly spin themselves around, unwittingly swinging him into the “Everything’s Under CTRL” poster next to the door. After months of hanging crooked, gravity has finally taken notice of its precarious position, and it falls down to the floor with a resounding crash _.  _

Both equally startled by the sound, Simon and Zoey spring apart and peer down at the unfortunate poster, so brutally victimized. The glass frame holding it has shattered, resulting in a spiderweb of cracks blocking out the words. In the back of her mind Zoey hopes Mo is playing loud enough music in his apartment, because explaining the reason behind that loud-ass crash is not something she’s up to doing right now.

“I’m sorry,” Simon breathes, starting to push her away. “Let me clean that up. Do you have a broom and dustpan—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she interrupts. To cement her point, she shoves the mess into a corner with her foot. “I’ll deal with it later.”

Simon arches an eyebrow at her. “Thinking about the future?”

“Mmm, I’m thinking more about the present.” Zoey leans back into him and drops the volume again so that each syllable is a ghostlike tickle against his lips. “Like what I’m gonna do right now with you.”

Simon’s worried pout breaks into a smile, and he hums. His eyes roam over her face, greedily taking in each detail of it. She’s glad; she put on a full face of makeup in preparation for his visit, and it should not be left unappreciated. “You’re so beautiful,” he whines. “It’s almost unfair.” Zoey’s eyes flash and in a blur, she rips off his outer shirt, leaving him in the black tee underneath. Clicking her tongue irritably at the multiple layers (yes, yes, she’s such a hypocrite), she peels off the t-shirt as well. He holds his arms up to aid the removal, chuckling lightly at her enthusiasm.

Continuing with her lead, Zoey takes his hands and guides them under the hem of her shirt. His fingers are tantalizingly icy on her bare skin, so by the time they’ve grazed past her stomach and arrived at her chest, her nipples are hard and painfully tender. She’d ditched her bra earlier, having dressed in an emerald green shirt with no plans to go back out. In hindsight, she  _ might’ve  _ been planning for sex, since she was thinking of Simon while she was unclipping it and throwing it over her shoulder.

He has a thumb on each nipple, rubbing slow, small circles. But the grunt of disapproval he makes is enough to drag her out of her ecstasy.

“What?” Zoey hisses through gritted teeth. Her forehead is pressed into one of his broad shoulders, his cologne invading her nose.

“Y’know, I don’t mind unfastening bras,” Simon mutters. His tone implies speaking is an afterthought for him, with his main priority being how his hands massage her. “I kinda like showing off my skills there.”

She throws her head back, helping him nudge her shirt up higher, then completely off. “Thought I’d save you a step,” she pants. “You should be appreciative.”

“Oh, believe me, I am.” There’s a pause during which both realize they’re still standing by the front door. Communicating silently, his hands move to her ass again and she takes advantage of the boost, jumping up so her thighs grip his torso and finding his lips again in one fluid motion. Simon starts backing towards the bedroom again, but she breaks their kiss to whine in protest. “No?” he says. She pouts and shakes her head rapidly. Going back to the scene of their argument will just remind her that she’s still kind of pissed at him. She doesn’t have space in her mind to confront that right this second. “Then where?” he asks.

Zoey hesitates. She considers the shower for a moment, recalling past escapades she’s had in there, but it doesn’t feel right for them now. Then her mind wanders to the sofa, and because Zoey has to overthink everything, she tries mentally positioning herself and Simon on it, but any arrangement seems too cramped. Frustrated with the sex-unfriendly layout of her apartment, and with impatience setting in, she finally barks, “Oh, fuck it,” and swings him over to the nearest wall.

Simon hits the wall with a grunt, which quickly crumbles into a moan when she takes ahold of the hardness between his legs. He grinds his teeth, eyes screwed shut. “Jesus, Zoey. You’re driving me crazy.” Yeah, Zoey seems to have a pattern of driving people crazy today, most of all herself.

She crouches next, undoing and yanking down his pants along with his boxer briefs, freeing his throbbing erection. “Holy shit,” she breathes.

He peers down at her. “A- are we actually doing this?” 

_ Yes,  _ she wants to say.  _ God, yes.  _ She wants this so bad. Her mind has been completely and utterly wiped, leaving behind nothing but what’s happening in this moment. But in lieu of words in her mouth, she finds his dick there instead. Simon starts to give a strangled shout, but then clamps his hand over his mouth, apparently remembering that they’re in an apartment building with paper-thin walls. “Fuck, Zoey,” he groans, biting his knuckles. “Oh my god.”

She takes him in her mouth as much as she can handle, then slowly works her way back to the tip, working her tongue like she’s kissing him on the mouth. There’s already a bit of an ache in her jaw, so she stops, eager to make him ache too. She sits back on her heels and smirks up at him, sweeping hair out of her face.

He’s taking in each breath as if he’s running a marathon. “Please,” he begs, reaching for her, but she ducks out of the way. “Zoey, please. What are you—”

She cuts him off with a simple press of her index finger to her lips. Without hurry, she rises to her feet and momentarily leans into her room, grasping for the drawer in her nightstand. Plucking out a box of condoms, she clumsily tears one off the strip before tossing the package aside. In an instant Zoey is once again knelt in front of him, putting all her focus into not revealing how shaky her fingers are. She fumbles once, then twice with the wrapper, and when Simon says her name she refuses to look up. “Please, let me,” he says, and her eyes dart up to snag his heavy-lidded gaze. Of course, as soon as she glances away, the wrapper finally decides to give way to her feverish twists and tugs.

Giggling almost manically with relief, she catches the condom in her palm before it can hit the floor, then takes her time sliding it on over his length. “Fuck,” Simon spits, his head thunking lightly on the wall when he throws his head back.

It’s been on for maybe half a second when Zoey finds herself sailing back upward, Simon grabbing gently under her arms to help pull her to her feet. A prickle of annoyance heats her cheeks due to her plans being thrown off course. When she notices the knowing glint hiding behind the haze of tortured pleasure in his eyes, the blush worsens, flaming red as her hair in blotches as far down as her chest. 

She doesn’t feel thwarted for long, though, because his plans seem to run pretty parallel with hers. With his pants already pooled at his ankles, Simon nimbly unbuttons hers so that they’re out of the way as well. His hand is immediately attracted to the rapidly collecting dampness between her thighs, barely contained by the black lace panties that she definitely changed into an hour ago just for him. “God, you’re wet,” he puffs into her neck. She starts to say something, but he stops her, adding, “Let me treat you, Zo.” Without further fuss, he peels away the panties and begins circling her clit slowly, the same smooth, measured strokes he employed earlier with her breasts. Too overcome to speak, Zoey responds with a sprinkling of frenetic kisses along his jaw. When he picks up his pace, her lips drift down to his throat, where she nibbles and sucks accordingly on the sensitive skin.

It doesn’t take long for her to get close to the edge. Simon senses it too, and when he retracts his hand Zoey can’t hold back a disappointed whimper. He positions himself at her entrance, but Zoey has one more thing that needs to be said.

“Wait,” she croaks, clearing her throat when she realizes she hasn’t spoken actual words for the past several minutes. He pauses and listens. Zoey taps his chin and peers up at him with narrowed eyes. “Before we do this, you have to promise me one thing.”

He gulps loudly, and she admires the sheen of sweat highlighting his finely-carved features. “Anything,” he pants.

Zoey looks up so their intense glares meet. “Promise me you’ll go get some fucking therapy,” she says, unable to suppress a smiling snort as she shakes her head.

“Only if you promise me you’ll do the same thing,” he shoots back. 

Zoey’s jaw drops. Her hammering heart feels like it could leap all the way up her throat and go  _ splat  _ on the floor next to the ruined poster. Still, though, she can’t deny she needs it too. “Okay, deal.”

Propping her up with one arm, Simon turns them around so she’s now braced against the wall. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches down and takes him in her hand, guiding him inside her. They both cry out, no longer caring about their noise level. He starts off with slow, deliberate thrusts, gradually building up to a rhythm they’re both comfortable with. She has her head tossed back, her hair a tousled mess spilling over her shoulders. 

And then, as if Zoey thought she couldn’t possibly be any more turned on, Simon starts to sing softly. She can’t tell if this is a heart song or not, but instinct tells her this is real. His voice has the same exact seductive flair hers did on that day in the meditation room at work.  _ “I want you to want me,”  _ he whispers near her ear, the words kissing her wherever his lips don’t.  _ “I need you to need me. I’d love you... to love me. I’m beggin’ you... to beg me.” _

Nearing her climax, Zoey wishes she could pick up where he left off in their song, but she only has enough breath in her lungs for moaning. She nearly yelps when he touches a deep spot, endlessly impressed with his ability to support most of her weight against the wall while fucking her. The ripple of muscle in his biceps shows little sign of exhaustion. 

Simon slows down again, trying to prolong their shared rapture. Moments later, he succumbs to the high, and his final thrust does her in as well. All at once they collapse to the floor, muscles aching from the exertion. They stay there for a minute, frozen except for their heaving chests, recovering bit by bit from the breathless intensity. “Just so you know,” she wheezes with her cheek pressed against his chest. “I’m still kind of mad at you.”

He presses a kiss into her hair, stumbling to his feet to go clean himself up. “Likewise.” 

By the time he reappears, Zoey has hastily redressed herself. She arranges her fingers into a claw-like comb and sifts her hand through her hair a couple times. Her throat is insanely parched, so she leads him into the kitchen, where she pours them glasses of water. “Can I, um, make a request?”

It’s like all the daring she possessed just minutes ago has leaked out of her. With the loss of that comes the return of the usual three hundred emotions that plague her mind. She wants to think they fucked most of the anger out of each other, but she still harbors some when their earlier argument comes to mind. (And “Mad World.”  _ Ugh, _ she loathes that song.) So the anger is still there, but ebbing.

“Yes?” Simon asks, setting down his emptied glass. She grins slightly at the marks up and down his neck— marks made by  _ her. She  _ did that. Some of her lip color is smeared around his mouth also, a blush of shimmery pink glinting around the edges of his beard. It’s like an embrace to her heart, knowing that he definitely just saw himself in the bathroom mirror but didn’t see any reason to wipe off the lipstick smudges.

“I- I just can’t let you leave without seeing you shirtless again.” She makes an awkward gesture that she hopes resembles pulling a shirt off. “Please?”

Simon chuckles and rolls his eyes, but obliges. He fastens his fingers at the hem of the black tee and makes a long, attractive show out of it, only tugging it off all the way when Zoey gives an exasperated sigh. He stands there, using his eyes to invite her to touch all she wants. Zoey can hardly believe how much her luck has turned around on such a shitty day; here Simon is, a sexy shirtless man standing in her kitchen and groaning softly as she runs her hands over his well-built form. 

“Wow,” she mutters. Before she can take another breath, a hand lands softly on the back of her head, and he leans in for another kiss. It’s so gentle and languid compared to the wild experience they just underwent, but Zoey has always liked having a partner who can pull off both. So without any qualms, she stands on her toes and deepens the kiss, massaging his dense curls.

He only allows himself to be nudged towards the door once she has confirmed three times that she doesn’t need help cleaning up the shattered poster. Simon’s hand on the doorknob, Zoey close beside him, in a position so temptingly similar to the one that started everything. Only this time, the exchanged glances are softened, and their voices are hushed and light rather than raised and abrasive. Zoey is trying to resist the urge to initiate a second round; then she thinks of something.

“Hold on,” she says, running back to the kitchen. She returns waving a pasta strainer in her hand. “I have a spare one, so, um, this way you don’t have to use the tennis racquet method anymore next time you make pasta.”

An amused smile splits his perplexed smirk. “Aw, thank you,” he laughs, accepting the unusual gift. “I guess  _ this  _ is the best way to serve.”

Zoey swings her arms into a tentative double thumbs-up. Inwardly, she cringes at herself. Leave it to her to make shit awkward even after mind-blowing sex. “You, uh, you got that right!” She offers him a stiff grin which makes him laugh again.

Simon opens the door and starts going through it, only to turn back around for a brief second. “So— just making sure— we’re still kind of pissed at each other, right?”

“Yep. Yes, we are,” she affirms. He nods and starts to leave again, only for Zoey to catch his shoulder. “Therapy?” she asks, meeting his gaze seriously.

“Therapy,” he agrees. Then he’s gone.

Zoey lingers in the doorway for a moment, straining to hear the music playing faintly from Mo’s apartment. She gives up trying to recognize it, though, because there’s still another song stuck in her head. With a lovesick smirk growing on her face, she shuts the door, singing quietly to herself.  _ “Oh, didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I see you cryin’...” _


End file.
